I have set down here the full story of my meeting with Amyas Crale, up to the time of his tragic death.
I saw him first at a studio party. He was standing, I remember, by a window, and I saw him as I came in at the door. I asked who he was. Someone said: “That’s Crale, the painter.” I said at once that I’d like to meet him.
We talked on that occasion for perhaps ten minutes. When anyone makes the impression on you that Amyas Crale made on me, it’s hopeless to attempt to describe them. If I say that when I saw Amyas Crale, everybody else seemed to grow very small and fade away, that expresses it as well as anything can.
Immediately after that meeting I went to look at as many of his pictures as I could. He had a show on in Bond Street at the moment, and there was one of his pictures in Manchester and one in Leeds and two in public galleries in London. I went to see them all. Then I met him again. I said: “I’ve been to see all your pictures. I think they’re wonderful.”
He just looked amused. He said:
“Who said you were any judge of painting? I don’t believe you know anything about it.”
I said: “Perhaps not. But they are marvellous, all the same.”
He grinned at me and said: “Don’t be a gushing little fool.”
I said: “I’m not. I want you to paint me.”
Crale said: “If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll realize that I don’t paint portraits of pretty women.”
I said: “It needn’t be a portrait and I’m not a pretty woman.”
He looked at me then as though he’d begun to see me. He said: “No, perhaps you’re not.”
I said: “Will you paint me then?”
He studied me for some time with his head on one side. Then he said: “You’re a strange child, aren’t you?”
I said: “I’m quite rich, you know. I can afford to pay well for it.”
He said: “Why are you so anxious for me to paint you?”
I said: “Because I want it!”
He said: “Is that a reason?”
And I said: “Yes, I always get what I want.”
He said then: “Oh, my poor child, how young you are!”
I said: “Will you paint me?”
He took me by the shoulders and turned me towards the light and looked me over. Then he stood away from me a little. I stood quite still, waiting.
He said: “I’ve sometimes wanted to paint a flight of impossibly-coloured Australian Maccaws alighting on St. Paul’s Cathedral. If I painted you against a nice traditional bit of outdoor landscape, I believe I’d get exactly the same result.”
I said: “Then you will paint me?”
He said: “You’re one of the loveliest, crudest, most flamboyant bits of exotic colouring I’ve ever seen. I’ll paint you!”
I said: “Then that’s settled.”
He went on: “But I’ll warn you, Elsa Greer. If I do paint you, I shall probably make love to you.”
I said: “I hope you will….”
I said it quite steadily and quietly. I heard him catch his breath, and I saw the look that came into his eyes.
You see, it was as sudden as all that.